


Glitter and Gold

by booklovertwilight



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical God Complex, Canon-typical complicated plans, Crack Treated Seriously, Creative use of neckties, Deductions, Dom/sub, Drinking & Talking, Enemies to Lovers, Expensive hotels, Fake/Pretend Relationship, L has a Kira fetish, Lies, Light has decided his best path to killing L is fucking him senseless first, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pole Dancing, Porn With Plot, Secret Identity, Secrets, Seduction, Shibari, Smoking, Strippers & Strip Clubs, This picks up right after Light kills Naomi Misora, Until it isn't, What is the best way to change the world using a supernatural murder notebook?, Yagami Light is Kira, because this will be a RIDE, with like "enemies with benefits" somewhere in-between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booklovertwilight/pseuds/booklovertwilight
Summary: He didn’t do this for the money. If he wanted money, there were a thousand other things he could do - working on cases, freelance programming, playing the stock market - that paid much, much better. No, Light wasn’t here for the money. He was here for something much more valuable.In every other area of his life, he was pretending. The perfect son for his father, the perfect student for his school - even the prodigy detective he played for the NPA, was a façade. Nobody he knew had ever seen him.And Light knew, better than anyone, the suffocating power of a mask. The capacity it has to reshape the face beneath it, so that after a while, even trying to take it off is pointless. To someone whose life was lived behind an endless procession of masks, this prospect was unsettling.And so, he’d found an outlet.---AU in which everything is the same, except Light is a stripper.
Relationships: L/Yagami Light
Comments: 26
Kudos: 91





	1. Prevaricator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prevaricator  
> adj., English  
> A person who has lied or lies repeatedly, particularly as a way to avoid the precise truth.

The sky overhead was a mottled mess of grey and pale blue, sun obscured by heavy clouds in the chill of early January. A crowd of people stood behind a red-and-white striped barrier, most on their phones, some watching the approaching train. 

The eyes of anyone who glanced over this crowd would stick to one man - not for long, not long enough to remember him, but long enough for him to leave an impression. Maybe, enough to later provide a sense of deja vu.

It wouldn’t be immediately clear, to such a person, what it was that had drawn their eye. This man was a little taller than the rest of the crowd, but only by an inch; his hair was fairer, but not enough to be properly blond, and while one could imagine he would have a rather impressive physique, it was mostly hidden by an untailored high school uniform.

It was probably something in the way he carried himself. As though he was the player character, and the rest of the world was either NPCs or wallpaper.

* * *

Light pushed open the front door to his family’s house. “I’m home,” he called, as he toed his shoes off in the entryway.

“Welcome home, Light,” his mother’s voice came from the kitchen, along with the sporadic clinks of clattering dishes.

The stairs groaned softly under his steps as he made his way up to his bedroom. Removing the pencil lead from his door hinge and the paper from the jamb, he padded his way in, tossing his school bag into the bed. Methodically, he shrugged out of his jacket, tugged off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and kicked off his pants. By the time he’d thrown the day’s uniform in the hamper and wrapped a soft towel around his waist, he was already smiling.

From behind him as he made his way to the bathroom to take his shower, Light’s gangly, floating shadow cackled. “You excited for tonight?”

“Always, Ryuk.” He turned the knob and returned to the mirror to comb out his hair. “Always.”

When the water had warmed, Light stepped into it, letting out an appreciative sigh at the way it soothed the stiffness he’d acquired from a day sitting at uncomfortable classroom desks. He went through his usual regimen, only half-paying-attention to the earthy and floral scents of his skincare products. This was - contrary to his parents’ beliefs - not because he was fretting (or even thinking) about the To-Oh entrance exams, which he was scheduled to take soon. They would be easy. 

It _also_ wasn’t because he was planning anything Kira-related. Everything on that front seemed to be going perfectly, for the moment. He’d rid himself of those FBI agents - and that one ex-agent, Misora, who was more competent than all the rest combined - so right now, proverbially speaking, the ball was in L’s court.

No, right now Light was considering nothing of any _real_ importance. He was thinking about the dances he would do tonight.

Humming _Good Girls_ as he turned off the water, and putting an unnecessary amount of flair into the way he stepped out of the shower, he debated how much of his makeup he was going to do before he left. Probably just the lip plumper and eyeliner, he decided while working a little wax into his hair. The rest could wait until he got to the club.

Finished with one half of his beauty routine, Light returned to his bedroom. From under his bed, he slid out a small black duffel bag. His death note was already sitting inside a stiff false bottom which he’d sewn in himself - the only way to open this, of course, was a tiny zipper whose pull was hidden behind a seam. (And on top of that, the cover of the notebook itself was implanted with a tiny RFID chip which would send him its location every five minutes if it ever got more than two hundred feet away from his phone. Sensible precautions.)

In the main compartment of the bag were a few comfortable, casual outfits, consisting mainly of sweatpants, t-shirts, zip-up hoodies, and knit caps. They were artfully plain, deliberately boring, designed to leave as little an impression as possible on anyone who might see him. It was one of these he’d worn for his final meeting with Raye Penber, and it was a different one which he donned now: dark blue and black instead of beige and brown.

“I’m heading to the library,” Light called to his mother as he slid his shoes back on.

He was already halfway out the door when she replied: “Okay, Light! We’ll see you later, be safe.”

“I will,” he promised. He used to feel strange saying things like that, because most of what determined his safety was out of his control… but not anymore. With a death note and a shinigami at his side, what could go wrong?

* * *

A sharp prick of pain made L still, pulling his thumb out of his mouth to realize he’d accidentally bitten off enough skin for it to bleed. The inconvenient redness that bubbled up from the spot made him frown, then slot the offending digit back between his lips to prevent the blood from staining his clothes.

The Task Force had gone home for the day, so it was only L and Watari in their hotel suite. Shortly, L would be the only one awake.

L stared at his screen, tasting copper as he rocked slowly in his chair. Displayed was a spreadsheet containing all known victims of the brilliant, elusive, likely-supernatural serial killer, Kira. He’d hoped that maintaining such data would lend some insight, but he’d gotten nothing particularly useful out of the project besides the clue from the very beginning of this case, which had led to his (correct) deduction that Kira must be located in Japan and his (necessary) relocation to the country shortly thereafter.

Right now, though, his best lead was missing. After the suspicious circumstances of Raye Penber’s death had led L to believe that Kira was on that train (though inconveniently out of view of the surveillance cameras), he’d contacted Naomi Misora immediately. But after two days of no replies, it was starting to become likely that he wasn’t going to _get_ any. 

The very fact that she might have been killed by Kira seemed to indicate that Kira could kill by methods other than heart attacks… Though, of course, nobody else on the Task Force knew who she was, nor did they consider that her possible suicide would be at all unusual. The lot of them were hopeless. L had put them to use today doing possibly (probably) pointless busywork, like compiling this spreadsheet.

L looked up. A partially-drawn curtain off to his right revealed part of the seemingly-endless Tokyo skyline, lit up in bright neon colors as it was throughout the night. He climbed slowly out of his chair, wandering over to the window and staring out of it.

Kira was out there, somewhere. And the death of Raye - and probably Naomi - had given L a very good idea of where, specifically, that might be.

He wasn’t looking forward to informing Mr. Yagami or Mr. Kitamura of his suspicions of their families, nor his ideas for a possible way to allay them. Illegal surveillance of police officers’ homes wasn't exactly a popular prospect. But, as L saw it, it would be necessary.

L sighed, aloud. He knew he was stewing on plans he’d already made, and information he’d already processed, because he had nothing to do with the next twelve hours. Unfortunately, the Task Force was comprised of ordinary people who needed to sleep.

In the past, L had solved these types of problems by working simultaneously on another case for someone in another part of the world. However, he had stopped _taking_ any other cases. This one was too demanding, too _interesting_ to allow for any distractions… 

Except right now, when he’d narrowed his pool of suspects just enough to _know_ all his next steps, but not quite enough to be able to _take_ any of them.

L left the window, pacing back and forth, the sounds of his footfalls hushing into the soft carpet. He was bored. Bored, bored, bored, with nothing to do-

He passed the window again. The unsleeping lights of Tokyo lit up the night. Walking over and leaning against the glass to look down at the street, he could see the headlights of cars illuminating the blissfully-swaying bodies of passersby.

Maybe there wasn’t _nothing_ for him to do.

L returned to his chair, and his computer, and opened a new browser tab. Without much of an idea what he wanted, he searched a very generic, “what to do in Tokyo tonight”.

At the top of the list was some event at a dance club, which, purely from the pictures on the website, would certainly be sensory overload central. No thank you.

After that, an article purporting to rank the 10 best ramen restaurants in the area. L didn’t even click into that one. If there wasn’t going to be sweet food, he wouldn’t be going.

The third link, L almost didn’t look at. The title was just advertising some drink special at a club. But then he looked in the description under the result: “Small, classy, upscale venue. Foreigner friendly. Highly personable service. Strip show begins at 9:30pm nightly.”

That was interesting enough to warrant a click, and after looking at the photos (and the menu), intrigue turned into real interest. Without a thought spared for embarrassment at the idea of going to a strip club, no matter how nice, L went to his room to change into the one and only nice thing he owned. 

About two years ago, due to a need to do some field work for a case at a high-society cocktail party, L had gone (read: been dragged by Watari) to Gieves & Hawkes. The bespoke suit which had come out of this endeavor was dark grey linen with a subtle crosshatched pattern in a desaturated red. With this went a warm grey collared shirt, a wide maroon silk tie, and a pair of brown-and-black Oxfords. A proper gentleman should have worn a watch, but wearing anything around his wrists was too awful a sensory experience to contemplate. And besides, even with his hair combed and gelled within an inch of its life, L was hardly a “proper gentleman”.

Without two hours to spend on his hair this time, all L did before he left was brush it, which… really didn’t change its appearance that much. It still stuck out in all kinds of weird directions. But, confident no bouncer would turn him away on account of his unruly hair, L simply straightened his tie and called himself a lift. The app said it would arrive in five minutes.

On the elevator ride to the lobby, L fired off a perfunctory text to Watari: “I’ll be away tonight. Back by noon tomorrow.”

Then, trying not to feel too much like an imposter, L slid his hands into his pockets and walked out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is roughly what L's suit looks like.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/38/ab/3e/38ab3ef6076d5e29ff4eacd3e2827d63.jpg)


	2. Kirakira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirakira (キラキラ)  
> adv., Japanese  
> Shining, glittering, sparkly. A term used to describe unusual names with incomprehensible kanji spellings, such as “Raito”, written with the kanji “moon”.

Light sat in front of the mirror in his private dressing room, rolling on his glittering pink lipgloss. Already applied was a bright red eyeshadow, which would accentuate the warm tones of his hair and eyes, and a generous amount of mascara. It looked rather dramatic here, in neutral lighting from a few inches away, but up on a stage, under a spotlight, it was all necessary just to avoid being washed out.

He capped the lipgloss and set it aside, making a satisfying popping sound with his newly-shining lips while he reached for the most important part of his outfit - of  _ any _ outfit he wore on a stage like this - a silver tin of fine, iridescent body glitter.

With a large, soft brush, he tapped some across his cheeks, his shoulders, his chest. Then, standing, tin in hand, he went to a full-length gold-framed mirror. In various quantities, the glitter went just about everywhere not covered by his black thong. When he’d finished, he set the tin back on the counter, and returned to the mirror. 

He turned a slow circle, admiring the image he made even without the strappy leather basically-lingerie that would be his first outfit for the night. When he’d first tried out this glitter, before it had become essentially his calling-card, he’d been struck with how much it made him look  _ ethereal _ . Like a mirage, a fantasy that might be gone the moment you glanced away. Even now, he couldn’t help but compare himself to some Greek goddess. Aphrodite, or Athena… maybe even Persephone. 

He was the god of this place, and it was his temple. It might seem odd, that somewhere so full of debauchery and dilettantism would become a temple to Kira, but it was true. It was a temple to Kira’s body, as the rest of the world would soon become a temple to his mind.

Sparing a glance at his watch, which sat on the counter beside his makeup, Light noticed it was quarter to 8. Quarter to opening, in other words, and his first set was only a quarter after that. Light gave his reflection a nod: better get dressed, then.

* * *

At a quarter past 9, L arrived at the club. It was on the top floor of a building full of other similar venues, but it was clear that  _ this  _ was the main attraction, in the building if not the whole block. Actually, L would be rather surprised if this wasn’t one of the most popular clubs in Tokyo - among those who could afford its entry fee.

Standing outside, L could hear upbeat, bass-heavy music bumping, but it wasn’t so loud that he was worried it would be obnoxious once he got inside. By the entryway, standing at the side of a red velvet rope, was a frankly bored-looking bouncer, checking IDs. 

So far, he thought as he stood in the short line, tracing circles on the sides of his pant legs with his fingertips, this was chalking up to be a dull outing. The people standing in front of him in line seemed like the ordinary sort of people who would go to an “exclusive strip club”: namely, those with more money than sense.

L would consider this a justifiable use of his time if their strawberry daiquiri was good.

He got to the front of the line, and presented the bouncer with one of his many IDs. This one had a generic English name, a photo from the  _ first _ time he’d needed to wear this suit, and a date of birth that happened to only be off by five days.

After paying the entry fee and getting his card back, L walked past the opened rope and into the main room, which looked  _ exactly _ like its pictures. Every surface was black and reflective, with variously-colored neon lights in patterns creating an atmosphere that felt illusory even to someone completely sober. In the center of the room, an elevated pole stage extended back by a catwalk to a wider stage which took up most of one wall. 

The seating options were… varied. In the middle of the room, there was a row of well-stuffed leather couches with circular tables at their feet. Around the edges, there were high-top tables surrounded by padded bar-stools, with the occasional leather armchair. And, within spitting-distance of the pole stage, there was a circle of uncomfortable-looking rounded stools, the appeal of which was clearly centered around being able to oggle the dancers from as close up as humanly possible. The majority of these seats were presently occupied by people doing precisely that to a dancer who only snapped out of her indifferent reverie to accept cash tips into her strappy pink thong.

L ignored everything in that general direction in favor of making his way to the bar, where he requested two strawberry daiquiris.

While he was talking to the barkeep - who seemed impressed with L’s Japanese - the music faded out, and the dancer left. In their place, an announcer - also wearing skimpy lingerie, interestingly enough - spoke up, thanking everyone for being here, talking about the drink special, et cetera, et cetera, and then saying that the strip dance was about to begin. There was some more after that, where the announcer waxed eloquent about the dancer, but L had stopped paying attention at that point.

It was only when he turned away from the bar that L returned his attention to the stage. It wasn’t actually because anything was  _ happening _ , yet. But immediately after the announcer left, there was an uproar of applause for whatever dancer was up next. It wasn’t polite or considerate; it was the raucous applause of die-hard fans at a concert.

Then, from behind the curtain, a man walked onto the stage. 

He was fully clothed.

Through the speakers came the cheeky opening notes of a song that  _ L recognized _ \- a five-year-old American pop song, “Good Girls” by 5 Seconds of Summer.

Given that music choice, the reasoning for the man’s outfit was obvious. It was modeled off a Japanese school uniform, although it was rather better-fitting than any school uniform L had ever seen. The lines of the sleek black jacket followed his tapered waist, the slacks hugged his muscular thighs… even the thin red tie matched the eyeshadow dusted across his playfully-hooded lids.

The opening guitar riffs accompanied a sauntering walk up the catwalk, to the pole stage. But he didn’t stand anywhere near the pole: in fact, he danced as though it wasn’t there. This ultimately didn’t matter. The man’s movements were smooth and fluid like water, every gesture of his expressive hands and each snap of his hips rolling through his entire body as he lip-synced so perfectly as to create the impression he was actually singing.

A tap on L’s shoulder only managed to elicit a snap of “ _ what? _ ”. 

“Your drinks,” said the barkeep’s voice somewhere off in the distance, two feet to L’s left. 

L groped blindly for a glass. It seemed like this dance was some sort of fever dream that L would wake up from if he looked away. At the first line of the chorus, the man stripped off his jacket, swinging once around the pole with it slung over his arm before he’d tossed it aside.

L found the cold stem, and raised the glass to his lips. It was a good drink - not that he cared.

The tie was yanked off as well, in an assertive, violent motion, and he snapped it straight between his hands as he dropped nearly to the floor. The blood-red of the shining fabric reflected in the dancer’s fiery eyes as he stood slowly, with a teasing arch to his back, while his lips curled into a knowing smirk. He smiled as though he had some incredible secret which would be obvious to anyone, if only they watched him long enough, looked closely enough… but he knew they wouldn’t, and his secret was safe behind the glamour of his appearance-

“Haven’t been here before, I take it,” said the barkeep, sardonically.

“Why do you say that,” L replied absently, watching the man on stage, who was seemingly lost to the world, unknowing he had any kind of audience, let alone one in as rapt attention as this one. 

“Seen that expression a lot.”

No, it wasn’t like the dancer didn’t  _ know _ he had an audience. It was like he knew, and didn’t care. He danced as though nothing besides this performance mattered at all. Like nothing besides  _ himself _ mattered.

“Who…” L took another sip of his drink. His own voice sounded strange to his ears, like it ought not to be there. “Who is that?”

“Kirakira,” the barkeep replied.

That actually was enough to jolt L from his staring. “What?”

“Kirakira,” the barkeep repeated himself, louder this time. As though L simply hadn’t heard.

The name threw L’s brain into a tailspin. He turned back to the stage, to the beautiful dancer who had dropped to his knees and was pushing his shirt up his chest. Underneath, his sculpted abs were dusted with glitter, which sparkled under the bright neon spotlights. 

L didn’t think he would be doing anything else case-related tonight, and his thoughts were stumbling over each other amid the haze of the music and the sensuous dancing and the seven-eighths of a daiquiri. Was that name a coincidence? Of course, the dancer  _ was _ sparkly, and maybe that was all, but… Could  _ this  _ be  _ Kira _ ? What motive would Kira have for working at a strip club? It couldn’t possibly be money, Kira was a skilled programmer, and that paid much better… But this dance was just too perfect. If anyone had ever asked L to predict how Kira would dance, this would be it. The way he moved, like he was the only one in the universe who mattered…

“I can’t give you his name, and I don’t have his number.” The barkeep’s bored tone made it sound like he’d said these words a million times before.

Whatever part of L was still paying attention replied, “That’s fine.” After a few more seconds, he asked, “Is it permitted to take photos?” He was already taking his phone out, even as he asked. For anyone else, a mere picture wouldn’t be terribly useful, but given the breadth of L’s access to various government databases, he was confident he’d be able to find this man’s identity based on a few photographs. (To add him to the Kira suspect list,  _ of course _ .)

The moment he got a positive reply, L picked up his second drink and walked closer to the stage (to get a better vantage point - quality mattered, when trying to use photos for identification). He crouched on the far end of one of the couches, setting his drink on the table in front of him, and lifted his phone.

The dancer had taken his shirt off completely, and his bare chest shone with a rainbow of color, making the light itself roll down his body like water when he moved. Stretched tightly across his lithe, toned arms were a pair of fishnet… well, they could have been opera gloves, if they’d covered his hands.

Then, he looked down at L, met his eyes, smirked…

And ripped off his pants.

L nearly dropped his phone.

The dancer didn’t notice: he already had one hand on the pole and was kicking back into the air, floating around the pole like he weighed nothing at all. He turned, legs splayed out at diagonals, and began to climb until he sat round the pole cross-legged, spinning quickly, three-quarters of the way to the ceiling.

L snapped as many pictures as he could, but he didn’t get a single decent angle on the man’s face (to say nothing of other parts of him). The motion, particularly the spinning, made getting a decent still photo almost impossible.

That is, until the song came to a lull that said it had to be ending soon, and the dancer’s spinning slowed as he bent over backwards, holding the pole by his crossed legs. As he drifted on momentum through a slow, effortless circle, his eyes scanned the room - and came to rest, again, on L.

Feeling suddenly over-warm and nervous, like an unexpected spotlight had been cast on him, L found his hands lowering into his lap as he stared back.

As the dancer’s manic eyes leveled into a stare at L, he mouthed the words blasting through the speakers.  _ Good girls are bad girls that haven’t been caught. _

And there was something about the conspiratorial smirk on his rosy lips that said,  _ I’m the good girl; are you going to be the one to catch me? _

L stared back, and nodded.

In the next moment, the music kicked back up with some final guitar riffs, and the dancer grabbed the pole above his head and kicked down, feet touching down gracefully onto the stage floor. He tossed his hair and grinned at the room as the song ended. 

The words “thank you, everyone” were on his lips, but if he actually voiced them, the sound was drowned out in the frenzied applause of the audience. He gave a deep bow anyway, then turned on his toes and sauntered away, disappearing behind the velvet curtain.

L’s phone sat abandoned in his lap, devoid of any usable photos. On the table in front of him, condensation gathered and dripped down the glass of an untouched strawberry daiquiri. Hanging off the couch, the tiny wound that he’d unconsciously picked open throbbed on the side of his thumb.

There was a near-inaudible  _ plip _ as a droplet of his blood hit the smooth dark floor.

_ What on earth just happened? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A drawing of L and Light from this chapter!](https://booklovertwilight.tumblr.com/post/642505424276471808/l-and-light-from-glitter-and-gold-au-where)


	3. Scintillating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scintillating  
> adj., English  
> Sparkling or shining brightly; brilliantly and excitingly clever or skillful.

Light leaned back in his white leather-padded swivel chair and took a sip from a glass of ice-water, printing a pink glittery smudge on its rim. He shot a skeptical look at the shinigami that leaned against the dressing-room wall. “Okay, spill,” he demanded. “What was all that? I heard way more cackling than usual out there.” 

Ryuk held up both hands as he shook his head emphatically. “Nothing! Nothing at all. Your dancing was awesome. That’s it.”

Light raised an unamused eyebrow. “Ryuk, I’ve spent how many months around you? I can tell when you lie.” He lifted his water glass idly, tipping it this way and that. “Was someone from the Task Force there? I wouldn’t be able to tell by their face if they were wearing a disguise, but you would be able to see their name.”

“I can’t tell you that.” Suddenly, he spoke with a stony impassiveness that betrayed no information whatsoever.

When Ryuk’s tone turned serious like this, Light was reminded that the shinigami was a lot more competent than he typically let on. To some, that might have been a frightening realization - that they were dealing, not with a minor trickster, but with an ancient and powerful god of death who enjoyed playing multi-level mind games. But to Light, it was actually quite calming. After all, for all the pretense Ryuk made of being an impartial observer, on no-one’s side, the transparency of his lies whenever he refused Light important information, and his easy acquiescence to do things that would benefit Light’s plans (so long as they didn’t break the rules of his kind)… there was only one side he’d ever done that for.

“Hm,” Light smiled. “You said you _can’t_ . Last time, you said you _wouldn’t_. I’m guessing there’s some kind of rule against telling humans each others’ names?”

“Maybe,” Ryuk said with a shrug, returning to his tone of transparent fibbing. It was a _yes_ in all but the word.

That was useful information on several levels, but it wasn’t actually important right now. Light made a show of shrugging and said, “Anyway, that doesn’t matter. You’d tell me if someone had been following me, and that would be the only way they could know I work here.”

Ryuk nodded emphatically. “Yeah. People following you creeps me out.”

Light gave a sardonic head-tilt that said, _funny, I feel the same way._ “Even if I didn’t have you around, I know the task force doesn’t have enough manpower to tail me everywhere. So, from that… I can definitively say this has _something_ to do with that raven-haired man who was staring at me.” 

“Ooh, _raven-haired_ , huh?” Ryuk folded his giant clawed hands under his knobby chin. He probably would have batted his eyelids, if he had them. 

Light resisted the impulse to get flustered, and sighed instead. “Isn’t that what it reminds you of? His hair just goes…” he flicked his wrists by the sides of his head. “Everywhere. He looks like a corvid.” He shook his head, looking back up at Ryuk. “You saw something strange to do with him, and whatever it is, it’s going to make some interesting drama for you. Right?”

The slew of cackling laughter he got in reply was as good as any verbal confirmation.

So there was something going on with him. That didn’t _necessarily_ mean it was to do with his _name_ , though. Light knew that seeing humans’ names and lifespans wasn’t all the eyes of a true shinigami could do: he knew for a fact they could see through walls. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ryuk also had some kind of x-ray vision, and could see through people, too - literally. 

The only constraint he was sure of was that Ryuk couldn’t read minds - or, at least, couldn’t read _his_ . There had been times the shinigami had expressed confusion about Light’s actions which had disappeared when he’d heard a verbal explanation. That could be a third-level move designed to convince Light he _wasn’t_ a telepath, but… Ryuk didn’t typically lie to Light like that. It seemed less likely. So… in all probability, whatever was going on with this man either had to do with his name, or it was something physical _._ That made the next action obvious.

“Well then,” Light said as he stood and made his way toward his clothing rack, picking out a sexy little number, “I’m going to go be interesting.”

* * *

Light ambled through a side-door, taking in the central space from a (moderately) lower vantage. Some of the club’s patrons were appreciatively watching the man who currently occupied the stage, but not everyone: some were having small conversations, ordering drinks, or looking at their phones. When Light walked out in black vinyl shorts, a corset top, and six-inch stilettos, many of the more distractible heads turned.

Would Light ever get over being the center of attention? Evidence suggested: no.

He gave a polite wave to tonight’s barkeep, followed by the hand-signals for “one of the usual, on my tab”, as he stalked over toward his unsuspecting victim, who was obliviously sipping on something obnoxiously pink in a martini glass.

The main purpose of this interaction was to learn more about the strange man, and see if he might be a threat. But along the way, Light was looking forward to having a bit of _fun_. It wasn’t every day - in fact, it hadn’t happened before - that Light found someone here who he couldn’t immediately see through. He’d learned there were five distinct groups of people who attended clubs like this… but this stranger didn’t fall into any of them. 

He sidled up next to the man, who was _still_ bemused, staring at the glass whose thin stem he held between two fingers.

The polite thing to do would be to say “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” and gesture to the empty cushion. Under any other circumstance, this is what he would have done, because it was what was expected of Light Yagami, son of NPA Director Soichirou Yagami, top ranked student in all of Japan. But he did not do this. Because right now, in this place, he was none of those things. In this place, he was Kira.

And the God of the New World sits wherever he damn well pleases.

The stranger finally looked up when Light fell into the seat right beside him, jostling the cushions and stretching his arm across the couch’s low back. The man actually stiffened for a moment, spindly fingers gripping fistfuls of his suit jacket’s front panels - but as soon as it had come, the tension was gone, and his hands brushed out the fabric as though dusting off invisible crumbs.

“Enjoying the show?” Light asked casually. A coquettish smile pulled one corner of his lip.

The man’s eyes trailed appreciatively over Light’s body, even though they turned away to some other unimportant part of the room before he could be considered to be _staring_. “I enjoyed yours,” he said. His voice was surprisingly low and smooth, almost sultry in its monotone. “Not much else appeals so far.”

“I think you’ll like the set at eleven,” Light mentioned. He turned away, pretending to watch the dancer on stage while he lifted one leg to cross it elegantly over the other.

From the corner of Light’s eye, the stranger folded his arms on his knees. His head had turned; he was watching Light now. “Is that when you’re on next?”

“That’s right.” He let out a chuckle. _This guy is smart, and he doesn’t turn his brain off even after a few drinks. Based on that, and the suit… CTO of a successful foreign startup?_ He gave the man a quick, side-eyed glance. “And maybe I could keep you company until then, so neither of us get too terribly _bored_. Could I get your name?”

“Ryuzaki,” he replied.

Something about the way he said it prompted Light to ask: “Is that your real name?”

“No.”

‘Ryuzaki’ giving him a fake name was a _pretty clear_ red flag. A random startup CTO would have no reason to do that. It increased the likelihood that he was involved in the Kira case in some way. And since Light knew he’d never seen this man before - he would definitely remember if he had - it was more likely than not that Ryuzaki worked for someone _besides_ the Japanese police. INTERPOL, maybe, or… 

Still, the fact that he’d come right out and _said_ it was a fake name, instead of employing any of a thousand possible lies or diversions, was intriguing. It meant Ryuzaki was playing the game at a higher level than the one at which he merely _used_ an alias. Rather, he was anticipating the possibility of conversing with a person intelligent enough to figure out he was using an alias, and wanted to ensure such a revelation would not come as a shock or betrayal. In point of fact, he expected _this_ conversation to end that way.

It was the same game Naomi Misora had played, one level higher.

Could _this_ be _L?_

“That’s fair,” Light said, maintaining his easygoing tone even as he felt his heart rate kick up. “I suppose it wouldn’t be reasonable of me to ask your real name if you don’t know mine.”

“Thank you,” Ryuzaki said, with apparently-genuine gratitude.

A waitress passed by the two then, bringing Light his usual kiwi mojito, along with yet another pink abomination for Ryuzaki. As she continued on her way, she shot Light a look that said, _he’s racking up a good-sized tab, you should flirt with him a little._ He gave a suggestive nod that said, _don’t worry, I plan to._

“So,” Light took a little sip from his drink, “What brings you to Japan, Ryuzaki?”

The way Ryuzaki’s lips pressed more tightly together would ordinarily be a sign of nervousness, but everything about the man’s behavior was so odd that Light was hesitant to put too much confidence into readings of his body language. After all, the man was crouched in a ball, but despite the usual meaning - that he was anxious or closed-off - he actually looked almost childishly open. “Nothing particularly interesting,” he said, in that same unreadable monotone. “Only business. I’m curious, though, why you decided I wasn’t from Japan.”

“Oh, your Japanese is impeccable,” Light confirmed what Ryuzaki must already know. “But I could tell by your suit. It’s from a foreign bespoke tailor, based on a fashion line from a few years ago.” _You might be surprised how much you can tell about a man by the suit he wears to an upscale strip club. For example, I also know that although you’re quite wealthy, you don’t make a regular habit of wearing nice clothes. Maybe you work from behind a computer, maybe you have enough power to disregard what people think. Maybe a bit of both. That was what made me think ‘CTO’ instead of ‘CEO’ at first, but now… those same things would be the case if you were L._

Ryuzaki smiled, impressed. “I see. I suppose you would know about suits, seeing so many. Kirakira…” his smile widened as he said Light’s stage name, and he dragged the pad of his thumb along his lower lip. “How long have you worked here, doing this?”

Light’s breath hitched at the way Ryuzaki’s thumb slid over his soft, pink-stained lip. He was tempted to look away, but, just as he had on stage, he leaned _into_ the intensity instead of away from it. Shifting closer, he spoke coyly: “Oh, not very long, as these things go. Actually, if you _only_ count the exotic dancing, it’s been less than a year.”

Ryuzaki leaned back against the couch, as though he were trying to lean against Light’s arm which rested there. As he did, his unbuttoned suit jacket fell further open, revealing the perfectly-fitted linen shirt that pressed against his lithe chest. When he looked at Light, his eyes were dark, intense, dangerous. “Given that,” he said, “I’m even more impressed.”

It was ironic, the frisson Light felt in this moment. He’d been practically naked on that stage, in more ways than one - but right now, sitting beside Ryuzaki, was a greater thrill. And he couldn’t write it all off as being due to his suspicions that Ryuzaki might work for L, or _be_ him. It was something about the man himself: his body, the warmth of it, that saturated the few inches of space still separating them. Something about his contradictory scent, the bitter musk overlaid with subtle sweetness, like candy or frosting, and the sterility of hotel rooms.

Swept up in that thrill was a poignant anxiety. Could Light afford to let himself feel this, be attracted to this man who was almost certainly his enemy? It was undoubtedly true that it was advantageous to get close to Ryuzaki, to get the man to fall for _him_ , if possible. Whether he was L or not, Ryuzaki was smart, and corrupting such a valuable asset to the Kira investigation would be beneficial. But that was entirely not the same thing as getting _attached_. And there had to be a thousand other ways of keeping Ryuzaki occupied that were less risky than-

Light’s gaze snapped back to Ryuzaki’s when he felt warm fingers sliding across his bare thigh. 

Ryuzaki’s stare was perfectly level; he stayed still, unmoving. He purred, “Do you mind?”

Light’s eyes narrowed. _Stupid. Obviously, I don’t mind. You wouldn’t have done it if you thought I would._ “Not in the slightest,” he replied sweetly, with a completely incongruous expression of brazen desire on his face.

“Good,” came the smug reply as Ryuzaki’s hand shifted upward, until it met the edge of Light’s shorts, fingertips slipping between his thighs.

A shiver pulled through Light’s chest. Ryuzaki was _this_ close to palming him through his clothes, and Light was of half a mind to let him. It wouldn’t even be the strangest thing that had gone on in this place.

But he wanted much more than this careful petting in semi-public. That might have been good enough from anyone else… but Ryuzaki wasn’t _anyone_ . He might be _L_. And the sense of danger, of literally flirting with mortal peril… 

Light realized he didn’t want Ryuzaki _despite_ the fact that he might be L, but _because_ of it.

He reached forward, curling his fingers around Ryuzaki’s shoulder. “Where are you staying now, Ryuzaki?” His voice came out quiet and husky.

It seemed to take a moment for Ryuzaki to snap out of merely staring at Light to process what he’d said. When he did, his face lit up, surprised and pleased. “A hotel near Midtown,” he said, “But didn’t you say you had another show at 11? I wouldn’t want you to miss it for _me_.”

Light rolled his eyes: he could tell purely from the look on Ryuzaki’s face that he wanted to get out of here just as badly, so he was only saying that to be irritating. Light leveled a glare at him. “Who says I’m doing this for _you_?”

The bright red that bloomed across Ryuzaki’s cheeks as he swallowed whatever he’d been planning to say made Light smirk.

“Meet me outside in ten minutes,” Light said curtly as he stood. The sultry way he arched his back was almost a habit by this point - at least, it was when he wore heels.

* * *

Back in his dressing-room, Light was taking deep breaths, trying to calm the adrenaline that made his hands tremble as he slowly unlaced his corset. He’d already hit the vanity hard enough to make the mirror shake, but it hadn’t helped very much. All he could do was get into more presentable clothes, so he could go elsewhere and relieve this tension properly.

As he was setting it aside, Ryuk floated through the wall.

Light avoided looking at the shinigami as he sat on his chair to unfasten the straps on his stilettos. He spoke quietly, not because he was afraid of being overheard - the walls were insulated enough to prevent anyone from hearing a normal speaking voice - but because he was putting a forceful damper on an impulse to yell. “It’s L, isn’t it.”

Ryuk was silent.

“I knew it,” Light whispered. He hadn’t really needed confirmation. His legs were shaking as he lifted each one, setting his heels aside. “ _Fuck_ , I wish you could tell me his _name…_ ”

“You’re still gonna kill him?” He sounded intrigued.

Light jumped out of his chair, stalking over; the shinigami flinched. But Light just turned to his clothes-rack, took out a red satin two-piece suit and a black collared shirt. “Of _course_ I’m going to kill him.”

“Even though… uh…” Ryuk gestured to, well, all of him. At the clear signs of excitement that were written all over his body.

“Yes,” Light snapped. He kicked off his shorts and slipped the button-up over his shoulders. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.” His eyes tracked his deft fingers as he quickly slipped each button into place. “ _He_ wants to kill _me_. He said so, on that stupid broadcast.” Tipping his chin up while he fastened the final button at his collar, he sneered. “You think I would forget that just because he’s attractive?”

Ryuk shrugged: _I’ve seen humans do stranger things._

Light shook his head. “Well, I wouldn’t,” he said, stepping into the suit pants and tucking his shirt in. “Even if it were just me - and it isn’t. I have to think about the world, my new world…” he smiled softly to himself as he zipped the fly and fastened the clasp. “That’s worth more than anything. More than me, and certainly more than him.”

Skeptically, Ryuk folded his arms. “But you’re still gonna screw him.”

Light turned away, shrugging on his suit jacket. “That’s right,” he replied, “I am.”

He knew what he hadn’t explained, which was confusing Ryuk. This wasn’t the safest possible move. And while Light might sometimes take significant risks, they were always pre-planned, days or weeks in advance. The one time he’d broken this pattern was because an unforeseen opponent had made a forcing move. This time, Light was taking the offensive, with no advance planning. It wasn’t like him.

But he had an opportunity now, one to play a longer game, and he’d be foolish not to take it. His original plan had been to simply get rid of L and then disappear into the shadows, where he’d been before L had declared war on him… but now he had a better idea. One that wouldn’t just keep L from catching him - it would keep any other clever detectives from getting close again.

Light went to a shoe-rack by the door, lifting out a pair of shiny black platform Oxfords. “The way I see it, this is a perfect opportunity,” he explained, returning to his chair a final time and slipping each one on. “If it’s my body he wants, he can have it.” He tied the thin laces of each one into neatly-centered bows. “In time, I’ll earn his trust. And once I’ve gotten everything I want from him… his resources, his title as L, his real name… then there’ll be no point keeping him alive.”

He lifted his bag off the table and stood, prowling toward the door until his fingers closed around its golden handle. “Then I’ll kill him,” he murmured, grinning widely. “With my hands, if I have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is quite similar to the suit Light puts on at the end of this chapter](https://i0.wp.com/www.menstylefashion.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/DolceGabbana-Spanish-Meets-Sicilian-8.jpg?w=750&ssl=1), and [here are his fancy platform shoes](https://www.maisonmargiela.com/11/11101000ec_14_r.jpg).


	4. Phantasmagoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phantasmagoria  
> n., English  
> A sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in a dream.

If L had been the kind of person to laugh, he would have been laughing.

He was leaning against the wall by the club’s front entrance, taking a long drink from his second consecutive glass of water. The fingers of his free hand tapped cheerfully against the side of his leg, and he’d been smiling so long his cheeks ached.

He’d found Kira.

Of course, since his deductive mind was running - as it always did - a million miles ahead of the evidence, he had no way of _proving_ this, but still. A single random night of boredom had narrowed his suspect list from several hundred to one. And he didn’t even need to worry about the fact that he hadn’t gotten a photo yet, because Kira had all but _said_ he wanted L to take him home. (Well, home du jour.)

That particular thought sent an entirely different kind of excitement through him, and he took another swig of cold water to dampen it, since he no longer had the convenient obfuscation of his usual sitting position.

But when he lowered the glass again and looked up, he realized that was pointless. Kira was _stalking_ toward him, wearing an immaculately-tailored suit of blood-red satin. L had thought he looked good in that faux-uniform, but this was something else: the single-breasted jacket hugged his trim waist, the fabric shimmered like the glitter he wore on stage, and despite the more traditionally masculine style of his shoes, they still had a three-inch heel.

L set his glass on a nearby table and stepped away from the wall. The room was spinning, but pleasantly, in a way that made him feel high. “Kirakira,” he acknowledged, still smiling at that clever wordplay, “I’ve called us a ride. It’s waiting downstairs.”

“Good,” Kira nodded. “I talked to the owner, and she’s fine with me taking the rest of tonight off, of course. She seemed particularly pleased I was going home with _you_.”

L shrugged. The drinks at this club were good, and he had money and a high alcohol tolerance.

As he left the club with Kira, the bass that had been pounding through L’s chest like a second heartbeat faded, along with the pervading scents of alcohol and perfume. The air was cooler out here, too, making the act of walking down this hallway feel like waking up from a dream - or falling into one. 

They rounded a corner into an elevator landing, and L took the liberty of pressing the call button. When he’d returned to Kira’s side - which he didn’t seem good at leaving for too long - the man turned to him. “Now that we’re outside, you can call me Asahi.”

L had the feeling he’d heard that name somewhere, but he filed it away instead of fixating on it. Looking up at Kira with a jaunty smile, “Is that your real name?”

Kira lifted an eyebrow as the elevator dinged, then walked in without another word. _I think you already know the answer to that._

* * *

In the car, L didn’t make any attempt to stifle his staring. But unlike most people who came under his scrutiny, Kira didn’t seem uncomfortable. In fact, he would periodically glance away from the window he was looking pensively out of, see that L was still staring, and smirk.

It was a very short drive to the hotel L had just secured a reservation for - short enough that they probably could have just walked, if L had been amenable to the idea of taking a few more minutes to get there, or having a little less ability to watch Kira. 

* * *

In the base of Midtown Tower, a small group of businesswomen all in grey pantsuits were waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, they got into the same car as Kira and L. 

To be honest, L was glad for it. The way Kira’s eyes tracked him, the way his fingers curled surreptitiously but possessively around L’s hip, was already almost too much for his hypersensitive body to handle. He knew on some level that as soon as they were alone, the fire which had always blazed behind Kira’s eyes would leap forth and consume him; and after that happened, he would need the whole rest of the night to return from the ashes.

Fortunately, several of the women were getting off on a higher floor, and so for now, L got his wish. They arrived at floor 45, and L slouched out of the elevator.

His shuffling steps clicked against the tan and black marbled tiles as he made his way under the golden lights, toward the reception desks. Everything here was so polished that the room became a fractal of reflections, and it was taking more effort than L would have liked to walk in a straight line. 

After a few steps, he realized Kira wasn’t beside him. He stopped, and turned around.

Kira was pacing into the lobby slowly, one thumb in his pocket as he took in every detail: the patterned leather chairs, the dark wood tables, the massive multi-tiered crystal chandelier that presided over it all. He seemed like a god looking approvingly over offerings made to him. Then his eyes came to rest on L, and he smiled, like he appreciated L himself most of all. He caught up with a few smooth strides. “This place is beautiful.”

L’s voice was steady even while his head was spinning. “I take it this is your first time staying in a five-star hotel, Asahi?”

“My first time staying in the _Ritz-Carlton_ , yes,” Kira said with a wry musicality. “I take it this isn’t yours?”

“I’ve been a lot of places for work,” L said. A deliberate non-answer.

Kira didn’t press the issue, though. Odd.

L checked in, handing over his ID in a way that would make it clear he wasn’t trying to hide it, or the company name on his credit card. None of those names would lead back to him, and by not hiding them, he made this fact clear to Kira.

In point of fact, nothing L carried on his person could lead back to him - not to any of his detective personas, and certainly not to his real name (of which there was no longer any written record). The few cards in his wallet were all under his currently-assumed alias. His mobile phone was protected by a combination of biometrics and practically-unguessable randomized alphanumeric passwords. Not even physically opening the phone’s case could provide any information, since doing so would burn the drive.

If Kira wanted his name, or even wanted to know that ‘Ryuzaki’ was L, he would have to get it from L’s own lips. There was no other way. 

As they walked back to the elevator to head up to their floor, Kira remarked, “I assume _Thomas Brown_ isn’t your real name, either.”

He wasn’t looking at L, so L didn’t look at him, either. He just pressed the call button, and stared at an abstract painting on the wall. “No, it isn’t.”

“That’s an interesting company name,” Kira said. “John Galt Exports LLC?”

L only smiled. He thought Kira might appreciate that. 

What did Kira think of _him,_ now? If L were in his shoes, he would think that ‘Ryuzaki’ was some kind of career criminal. Truly, everything L had done so far had been in deliberate support of this deduction. There were a great number of criminals, particularly those members of organized crime syndicates, whose real names were unknown, whose faces weren’t in any databases. L had decided his best angle in this interaction was to pose as one of them. 

Technically, everything he’d said and done could _also_ lead to the conclusion that he was L. (Deliberately so: keeping the number of lies he told to a minimum was critical, given he had over three hundred distinct aliases.) But there was only one of him, compared with thousands of career criminals around the world. Kira was too smart to commit the fallacy of base rate neglect. So L didn’t need to worry about that.

Unless… 

L knew almost nothing about _how_ Kira did what he did. His only lead was the probably-meaningless note about shinigami loving apples. So, theoretically, there could be something about Kira’s powers that gave him data L wouldn’t count on. In that case, he could literally never be certain in judging what Kira did and didn’t know-

The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened, breaking L from his train of thought. 

The car was empty.

L hunched over a bit further as he walked in, and jammed the button for floor 48. He sidled into the corner, like he was trying to hide, even though he knew that was impossible.

Kira walked into the car.

The doors shut.

And… nothing happened.

L looked up at Kira, who stood solidly in the center of the elevator. His hands rested easily in his pocket and around the handle of his small black bag, his expression was flat, his breathing was deep and even. The only tension was held in his slightly-raised shoulders.

L took a step away from the wall, apprehensively. The fact that Kira _wasn’t_ taking the three-floor upward journey to slam him against the wall and kiss him breathless was unraveling him more than if he’d just _done it_ , and L’s heart was hammering against his ribcage.

Then, slowly, Kira turned to look at him. Like melting ice, everything about him softened. He let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders relaxed, and he took a step towards L. “Ryuzaki,” he said. His voice was sweet, caring. “Before we get to our room, I should tell you something. The person I was on that stage… it isn’t who I am. I can be that person, if that’s what you like. But if you only want to see that sort of thing at a distance…” He took his hands out of his pockets, holding out open palms. “I’m happy to be someone else up close.” He gave a beautiful, charming smile, and reached up to trace a gentle thumb along L’s jawline. “What I want most is to have a good time with you tonight.”

L frowned. He knew what script Kira was reading off, and while he was an incredible actor, L had no interest in reading this play. 

His hand snapped out of his pocket and grabbed Kira’s wrist. Glaring up through uneven dark bangs, he said, “I don’t believe you.”

Kira’s perfect-lover expression faltered, and for the briefest moment a flicker of anger lit his eyes, before they widened in innocent confusion. “What do you mean?”

The elevator doors opened, and L cast Kira’s hand aside, heading out into the empty hallway. Kira followed behind. They walked close together, not deliberately, just like they were opposite poles of a magnet, pulled toward each other by forces beyond either of their control. L could feel the heat on Kira’s body, fill his lungs with the woody, citric scent of Kira’s cologne. Everything about him was intoxicating.

When they came to their suite, L opened it up, letting Kira go in first. The door thudded shut and clicked into place; L leaned against it. His quiet voice seemed to echo into the silent room. “You _are_ the person I saw on that stage,” he said, watching Kira set down his bag, slip off his shoes, and set them against the wall. “You’re Kirakira more than Asahi, or whatever your ‘real’ name is.” L kicked off his own shoes hastily; they clattered noisily across the floor and into the wall. “Don’t bore me by pretending to be someone else, and don’t insult me by assuming you know better than I do what I want.”

Kira inhaled sharply, bit his lip. His eyes narrowed as he took a step closer. “Ryuzaki…” He said, like a warning.

L pressed his hands back against the door, arms tensing. He felt dizzy and lightheaded under that harsh gaze, and he couldn’t hide the tenting in his slacks if he wanted to. But he kept his eyes trained on Kira. “You were the god of that club,” he said. “Would you be the god of my bed, too? My _kami_?”

Kira slammed his palm beside L’s head; the door shuddered in its frame. He leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of L’s ear. “If that’s what you want,” he said in a cruel tone that made L shudder, “then that’s what you’ll call me.”

L was trying to nod his affirmation when Kira lifted his hand from the wall and scraped his nails up the back of L’s neck, grabbing a fistful of his thick hair and pulling L’s head aside. 

“Yes,” L said aloud instead, voice cracking as he tried fruitlessly to hold onto the last dregs of his composure. “K- _Ah!_ ” He yelped at the sudden sharp pain as Kira bit into the side of his neck, _hard_. That would definitely bruise.

“What was that?” Kira pulled back, grinning. The overhead light illuminated his hair like a golden halo, and its reflections off his suit jacket made his eyes shine red. He _looked_ like a god.

L’s vision blurred briefly with the effort of keeping his eyes wide open, but he was desperate not to miss _any_ of this. He had Kira _right in front of him_ , and even though a voice in the back of his mind protested at the immorality, what he really wanted, more than anything, was for Kira to just _use him_. “Yes…” he moaned, “Kami.”

Kira growled at that, his eyes falling momentarily shut. As soon as he opened them, he gripped L’s jaw, so he now cradled L’s skull between his hands. And then, he pulled L forward, and _finally_ kissed him. If it could even be called that. Kira devoured his mouth like an animal, like a _monster_ ; his lips were parted from the moment they made contact and he forced his tongue into L’s mouth the moment he reciprocated. He ground against L in the same motion, pinning him to the door by his hips. It was hot, wet, sloppy, undignified even by L’s standards… he didn’t want it to stop.

But all things do, and this did too. Kira stepped away in one smooth motion, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, like L’s taste disgusted him. 

L shivered in his sudden absence, gaping dumbly, at a loss for words.

Just slightly breathless, Kira said, “Take your clothes off and leave them here. If you don’t want them wrinkled, fold them, but don’t make me wait.” With that, he spun on his heel and walked toward the bedroom.

L, who wouldn’t be able to fold clothes neatly in this state even if he _cared_ , shucked off his jacket and tossed it on the ground before Kira even left. 

As L was tugging off his tie - not very quickly, considering the first thing he’d done was pull the wrong end and tighten the knot - Kira turned to him from the doorway. “Bring that,” he said, “I’ll bind your hands with it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: @booklovertwilight
> 
> This work has no set upload schedule (for now). Please hit the subscribe button at the top if you'd like to be updated with new chapters!  
> Thank you so much for reading ^_^ If you've enjoyed this story, kudos/comments mean a ton to me!


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